


some kind of solitude

by AozoraNoShita



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: I have no idea where I'm going with this but we need more madilton so here it is, M/M, except in a kind of tiny park so technically "park attendant" au, park ranger au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-26
Updated: 2018-03-04
Packaged: 2018-07-26 19:23:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7586797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AozoraNoShita/pseuds/AozoraNoShita
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Somehow James keeps ending up in the park ranger truck with Alexander Hamilton, listening to classic rock and wondering how he got to this point in his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. jukebox hero/jungle love

**Author's Note:**

> nothing much happens in this chapter, but it still took me forever to write  
> help me

 

**Month: June, day: Sunday, time: morning, weather: ???**

 

James was in a bit of a situation, and it was mostly his own fault: he had forgotten to check the weather report. Usually he never left the apartment without knowing the high, low, and chance of precipitation for the day. Mostly because his roommate was on a meteorology kick (and had been for the past two years now) and always announced the forecast as soon as James emerged for breakfast. Today, though, James had actually gotten up first. Because he hadn’t been able to sleep. As usual.

So he’d gotten out of bed, the apartment had been completely dark because the sun hadn’t breached the horizon, and it was early enough that even early-riser Thomas wasn’t up yet. He’d leaned against the counter in the dark kitchen and contemplated food, but his stomach started cramping at the thought. So he’d put that off for a while. Then he’d debated pulling out his laptop, but the dark was nice and he didn’t want the artificial light searing into his eyeballs. In the end, he’d left a note, grabbed his keys, and driven to the park.

The park was smaller than the state parks, but pretty big for a town park. Most of its area consisted of baseball fields, but there was also a small lake in one corner, and some nice forested areas around the whole perimeter and between the fields. There were three walking paths that formed loops like a Venn diagram—you could walk just one loop or stick to the outer edges of each and circle the whole park. The whole place was immaculately maintained, which was one reason James liked it so much. There were benches and picnic shelters everywhere, and lots of areas with multiple bird feeders hung up so he could sit and watch the wrens and jays. Plus, the trails were a nice mix of mulch, asphalt, and well-trod dirt, so he could choose a route that corresponded with how much energy he felt like expending that day, with lots of places to sit down along the way.

_And_ it was only about a ten minute drive away. When he arrived, the gates to the main parts of the park were still locked for the night. He parked at the community center instead—a nice sized building with a few basketball courts inside, not open yet—and walked down the sidewalk to the locked gate, bypassing a sign that stated it would be open by 7:30. There wasn’t a gate in front of the sidewalk, he reasoned, just the road into the park. He’d walk down to the trailhead and pick a spot to relax from there.

He didn’t actually make it that far, though. The sky lightened just a little bit, enough for James to see that the reason it was so dark wasn’t just because it was early but also because rainclouds stretched and covered the sky as far as the eye could see—and then suddenly, the downpour. He groaned and started jogging (and _oh_ , he’d pay for that later), turning off the main sidewalk the first chance he got and heading for a picnic shelter nestled back in the trees. By the time he reached the shelter he was already soaked and shivering, and cursing his decision to leave the apartment and his bed in the first place.

_I’d say it’s about a 100% chance of rain_ , he thought morosely. _Damn_.

He didn’t know how long he’d been staring out into the gray morning rain before he heard a loud noise in the distance, creaking and metallic. The gate opening, probably. Was it already 7:30? He checked his watch but no, it was only 7. Maybe someone was here to unlock the park early. He waited and a few minutes later, a white truck with the town logo painted on the side came slowly down the road, windshield wipers waving furiously and headlights illuminating the sheets of rain coming down on the asphalt.

James considered trying to flag the truck down, but it was dark and he was wearing dark clothing, and the chances he would be visible to the driver were slim to none. Sure enough, the truck went right by the shelter. But then it stopped, pulled a U-turn, and came slowly back towards him, driving up onto the sidewalk so it was parallel with the shelter and idling right next to him. He felt the first stirrings of hope that maybe he would get out of here without having to walk back through the rain. However, he couldn’t see inside the truck because all of the windows were completely steamed up. After a moment of trying to peer at someone who was hypothetically on the other side of the driver’s side window, a hand appeared and wiped the condensation away.

And it was Hamilton.

They stared at each other for a moment. Finally Hamilton made a jerking motion with his head and mouthed, ‘Need a ride?’ He thought about it for just a moment, but he had no idea when the storm would end so he might as well get out of here while he could, regardless of the source of the ride. So, he dashed around to the other side of the truck, lifted the handle, and—the door was locked. For a brief moment he actually though Hamilton would leave him outside but then there was a flurry of motion and the door suddenly opened, Hamilton leaning across the seat to pull the handle from the inside.

“Sorry,” Hamilton said. “I forgot everything in this goddamn truck is manual including the locks and you know what the windows are also manual I actually have to crank them open like this is the goddamn 90s—”

James hauled himself into the seat and slammed the door behind him. “Why would you want to open the windows?” he asked, slightly breathless.

Hamilton gave him a look. “Well not right now, obviously.”

“Ah.”

They sat silently for a moment, rain pouring and windshield wipers squeaking. James got the distinct impression he was being sized up. Despite himself, he started shivering. This knocked the other man out of his musing.

“Shit, lemme drive you down to the boathouse.”

“Actually if you could just get me to my car, I’d appreciate—”

“You got towels in your car?” he interrupted. Correctly interpreting James’ silence as a negative, he barreled on, “We got some down there, at least dry off first before you ruin your car seat or die of pneumonia or whatever.” And he turned the truck back onto the road and started driving before James could protest again. Fine, whatever. Drying off would be nice.

They crept down the road—visibility was awful and the speed limit was 15 anyway—with the radio playing quietly, _In a town without a name, in a heavy downpour._..and Hamilton humming along and tapping on the steering wheel to a beat that didn’t match the music at all. Another truck came speeding down the road behind them, actually passing on the side and then kept going.

“You’re not gonna get far, buddy,” Hamilton muttered, seemingly to himself. “Jesus. It’s fucking _raining_ why are you even _here_ I can’t believe—” James couldn’t make out the rest.

Sure enough, they pulled up behind the other truck, which had been forced to stop at the next locked gate. Hamilton heaved a sigh, pulled a lurid yellow rain jacket out from under his seat and over his head, without actually putting it on, and ventured out into the rain and towards the gate. James couldn’t quite make out his form once he was outside, just a yellow blob, but a few moments later he heard the gate creaking and the other truck zoomed forward. The door opened again and Hamilton jumped back in—literally, as the truck was too tall for him to just step up.

He was muttering to himself again. “Impatient asshole.”

_You’re one to talk_ , James thought. But, well, that was a bit uncharitable towards the person who’d saved him from the rain. Not untrue, though.

Hamilton drove them slowly down around a few meandering curves until they hit a parking lot at the bottom of a small hill. James recognized it as the one that abutted the boathouse, right at the edge of the lake. Hamilton reversed effortlessly into a designated spot next to the building, which was pretty impressive even without the pouring rain. Before James could say anything, Hamilton had cut the engine and hopped out again. He floundered for a moment but the yellow blob was rapidly disappearing so he opened his own door and dashed out into the storm to follow, praying he wouldn't injure himself in the attempt.

He caught up to Hamilton just as he turned the key and unlocked the door of the boathouse. They both scurried in and Hamilton closed the door behind them before slumping against it.

“Hate working in the rain,” he muttered, and immediately segued into, “Coffee? It'll help warm us up, at least. Oh yeah, towels, hang on. Where did we put—?” And he was off again before James could decline the coffee.

The boathouse was a large square building. The biggest room took up one corner of the square, containing a long counter with a cash register and a sno-cone machine, as well as a drink cooler and a small fridge with a sign proclaiming “BAIT $4.” Hamilton had disappeared through an open doorway to one side that seemed to go to a supply room of some sort. There was a closed door on the adjoining wall with a small plaque that identified it as an office. Hamilton emerged from the supply room, talking even as he made a beeline for the office: “Towels in there are covered in I don't even wanna know what, I think there are some actual clean ones in here although hell if I know if laundry ever gets done around here, not my job…” James could hear more talking even as Hamilton disappeared again into the office, but couldn't make it out. Didn't seem important anyway.

Moments later he returned with the promised towels, which he more or less threw on top of James’s head. Well, at least they were clean. As James proceeded to dry off, Hamilton grabbed a coffee maker from under the counter and plunked it on top. “Coffee!” he pronounced.

“No thanks,” James interjected quickly, while he had the chance.

Hamilton left off his chatter for all of two seconds to give him another weird look before shrugging and continuing on as he had been. James was left to himself for the moment, although not without the constant muttering as background noise. He tried to recall if Hamilton had talked this much when he’d known him.

Because James had known him, back in high school. They’d been pseudo-friends: they sat together in class, did group projects together when they were allowed to choose their partners, and occasionally ate lunch together. And Hamilton definitely had opinions he wanted to share with the rest of the world, frequently and loudly, but James didn’t recall him having a stream of consciousness constant narration thing going on. He knew Hamilton and Burr had gone to college together, because Burr would sometimes email him to complain about his former partner’s loud mouth. And he knew Thomas worked with Hamilton at the city internship, and he always had something unflattering to say about Hamilton’s speeches. But this new habit was a bit different than either of those complaints. It wasn’t entirely annoying, James decided, especially considering just how obnoxious Hamilton _could_ be, if he put his mind to it. But still. While listening to Hamilton prattling was better than standing in the rain, it still ranked far below being back in his apartment, in his room, in his bed.

As dry as he was going to get without changing clothes, James bundled up the towels and placed them gingerly on the counter.

“ —same as the other place but with different portion sizes, doesn’t really make any sense, oh hey,” Hamilton pulled himself out of whatever tangent he’d been on, “you wanna stay here while I do rounds or want me to take you back up to your car or? What?”

“Car, please,” James sighed.

The coffee machine sputtered as Hamilton ducked down to pull something else out from under the counter. An umbrella. “Here ya go,” he shoved it at James and simultaneously reached out to pick up his coffee cup, _and_ started moving towards the exit. James fumbled a bit but managed to grab the umbrella and trail after him without looking like a complete fool. Hamilton stepped out into the rain, holding the door open for him and looking entirely unfazed, hood of the rain jacket slipping down far enough that James couldn’t quite see his eyes. He was talking again, quietly, entirely to himself.

James stepped out and opened the umbrella, and together they made their way back to the truck, where he stashed the umbrella in the footwell as they made their way slowly up to the community center parking lot. James stared out the window, turning his head enough that he couldn’t see Hamilton even in his peripheral vision. Could still hear him, though. Along with the sound of rain, and the radio, still playing the same classic rock station. For a moment, even with all the noise, it was quiet.

James really liked this park.

When they reached the parking lot, Hamilton pulled the truck up so James was next to the driver’s side of his own car before he parked the truck and grabbed the umbrella from next to James’s knee. The raincoat, never pulled completely on, slipped off his shoulders as he once again jumped out into the rain, but that didn’t seem to deter him at all. James watched, a little dumbfounded, as Hamilton circled the hood and opened his door for him, holding the umbrella up so James would have a dry path between the two vehicles. He wasn’t even standing under it, just holding it up and watching expectantly.

James clambered out. “You’re getting wet,” he protested weakly, even as he dug into his pocket for his car keys.

Hamilton cocked his head and grinned, suddenly and unnervingly still. “What can a little water hurt?” he asked, and stopped. Was silent until James got into his car and closed the door. For the second time that morning, they stared at each other through a window. Then Hamilton waved and ambled back to the truck, got in, drove away.

The radio in James’s car was turned off.

They hadn’t been the type of friends who talked about things in high school, he remembered as he drove carefully back to his apartment building. They didn’t know a lot of details about each other’s personal lives. But, he could have sworn—

Thomas was up and cooking breakfast in the kitchen when he got back. The smell of frying tomatoes and the sound of Thomas humming along to the radio greeted him when he came in the door, and his shoulders loosened from an unconscious tension.

“Good Lord,” Thomas huffed when he saw him in his still not quite completely dry clothing. “I got your note, but I was hoping you’d managed to avoid that mess outside.”

“Not quite.” He paused. “Hamilton…”

Thomas’s eyebrows shot up. “What about him?”

“Didn’t he move here after some big storm? From some island. Quite a few people died. A hurricane?”

Thomas waved his spatula dismissively. “The hell would I know?”

“Right. Never mind.”

Thomas frowned at him, but dropped it when James just shrugged in response. He turned back to the stove and started singing along with the radio, picking up the lyrics halfway through a verse. “Da na na, na _the surf, in the pouring rain, everything’s better when wet_.”

_Not really_ , James thought, and went to change clothes.


	2. tuesday's dead/tuesday afternoon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back  
> but I still don't know where I'm going  
> thanks for reading this nonsense

**Month: June, day: Tuesday, time: morning, weather: overcast, high of 82**

 

Here was the thing: James was polite. He’d been raised to be, and he’d found it served him well most of the time. On occasion he’d come into some circumstance where he _knew_ it wouldn’t help him in any way to take the time to be polite, but it was hard to break the habit. And Hamilton, quite frankly, was one of those people who responded the same way to polite as to rude—that is, badly. Or at least he had been in high school; it seemed like he interpreted genuine politeness as masked condescension. But maybe he'd grown out of that?

The point was, Hamilton had really helped him out that day in the park, and it was only polite for James to say thank you, which, he realized with vague mortification, he had neglected to do at the actual time of the whole incident.

So he had to do that, at least, or else he’d feel indebted — or worse, rude. Tuesday, when he felt sufficiently recovered, he hauled himself back to the park at seven in the morning, thinking he’d find Hamilton, express his obligatory gratitude, and hightail it out of there to come back to the apartment and get some work done. Naturally, that was not what ended up occurring.

He drove up to the park gate, unlocked already, and drove through slowly, keeping his eyes peeled for the park truck. He made a loop around the baseball fields on the north side of the park but didn’t see him, so he took the bisecting road to the south side and down towards the boathouse. Just catching a glimpse of the tail lights of a white truck, he detoured towards another set of baseball fields, and _there_. The park truck was idling next to a closed-down concessions stand, and Hamilton was crouched next to it on the side of the road, staring at something on the ground. James debated just driving on by, but _he was polite, dammit_. He parked his car and got out.

Hamilton didn’t even look up until James was right next to him. He blinked rapidly, and wow he’d never really grown into those big doe eyes, and it seemed to take him a moment to register who he was looking at.

“Mads!”

Lord, James hadn’t heard that nickname since high school. He had not missed it.

Ignorant to James’s disgruntlement, Hamilton continued on blithely. “Check out this little guy, how’d he get all the way out here? I dunno, but maybe I should give him a ride.” Despite asking a question, he didn’t stop long enough for James to give an answer. Whatever. He looked at the ‘little guy’ in question. A turtle, about the size of one of his hands, sitting stock-still on the grass next to the road, blinking warily up at the two humans. Hamilton announced decisively, “I’m gonna give him a ride.” As an afterthought: “Coming?”

James had his own car, and he had only come to say his two words and leave. But Hamilton was already picking the turtle up, both hands (much smaller than James’s own) wrapping around the middle of the turtle’s shell and carrying it over to the truck. Not listening.

He sighed and followed.

Hamilton leaned over the edge to set the turtle down in the bed of the truck. “Has claws, and they’re going pretty good. Don’t want that up front with us, and maybe it’s a snapping turtle, think those things can take fingers off. Like biting into a carrot, right? What do turtles eat anyway? Probably depends on the kind of turtle, wonder what kind this is, beak doesn’t look sharp enough to be a snapper now that I think about it. Think it’s called a beak? The little hook-y thing on the mouth?”

“Laurens would probably know what kind of turtle it is,” James commented offhandedly as he watched the turtle slowly edging away from them, even confined as it was in the truck bed. Laurens had gone to high school with them, had always been interested in biology. James hadn’t really been friends with him either, though they’d talked a few times.

Hamilton went oddly still. “Do you have a Facebook?” he asked, apropos of nothing.

James could not follow this guy’s line of thinking. “No. Why?”

“I didn’t think so. Probably smart, the only thing it’s good for is getting into arguments.”

“Which I know you enjoy doing.”

Hamilton started moving again. “Well. I did say it was good for that, didn’t I?” He opened the door and climbed into the driver’s side. James saw him lean across to unlock the passenger door, then turn and give him an expectant look. James walked around the front and got in.

“Don’t wanna jostle him around too much so let’s take this slow.” The radio turned on automatically when he turned the key, playing the last few seconds of a commercial and a bumper for the station before starting a song.  Hamilton actually stopped talking to himself long enough to sing the first lines. “ _If I make a mark in time, I can’t say the mark is mine, I’m only the underline of the word…_ ” He cut off abruptly and started humming instead. It was very intense humming; James couldn’t bring himself to interrupt and say something, although this may be the only chance he’d get where Hamilton wasn’t already talking.

They were almost down at the lake when there was a sudden switch back to singing, “ _Man may live, man may die,_ ” more humming as Hamilton reversed into the parking space next to the boathouse, “ _but if he tries to rule the sky, he must fall_ …” The music shut off mid-verse when he killed the engine. “What’re you doing out here, anyway?” he asked, apparently just now realizing he didn’t usually have someone riding shotgun while he chauffeured turtles around.

“I came to say thank you, for helping me out on Sunday.”

“What, seriously?”

James was regretting this already. “Yes.”

“How _polite_.” He said like it was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard. And he clambered out of the truck without further comment. To James, at least. It sounded like he’d started talking to the turtle.

The turtle had taken refuge under the toolbox, so Hamilton had to climb into the truckbed to retrieve it. The maneuver was graceless but careless—carefree—in a way James envied.

“Ha!” Hamilton finally managed to snag the turtle, only to immediately hand him off to the nearest set of free hands so he could jump back out. Between one second and the next James found himself holding a turtle,and the little creature was not pleased about it. Its limbs moved furiously; James had to adjust his hold to avoid the flailing claws.

Annoyingly, Hamilton did not take the turtle back, even seeing James with his arms completely outstretched to get it away from his body. Instead, he led the way down a short sidewalk to the lake shore, leaving James with no choice but to follow. It was hard to be too irritated when the lake actually came into view, though. This early in the morning the air was still cool, and clouds of mist swirled over the silver-smooth water in a light breeze that raised goosebumps on James’s bare forearms.

There was also a shit-ton of ducks.

James was reminded of all the reasons he usually came to this park: the quiet, the beauty, the wildlife...and then Hamilton opened his mouth and interrupted it.

“Okay, just set him down here.” He gestured down at a nondescript patch of sand.

James suppressed a glare and knelt down, carefully, to place the turtle gently on the shore, a foot away from the water. Once free from his grip, the turtle proceeded to do absolutely nothing. They watched it for a moment.

Still nothing.

Hamilton dropped to his knees in the sand beside him. “That’s weird,” he said. “Usually these guys take off running for the water. Maybe it’s because we’re watching? Like, performance anxiety or something.” He reached out and tapped the turtle’s shell. No reaction, although James could swear the poor animal was glaring at them.

“Maybe—” Hamilton started again, but James interrupted.

“Maybe it’s not a turtle.”

Hamilton gave him a withering look. “It’s clearly a turtle. What else could it be, a _crocodile_? It’s got a shell.”

“Could be a tortoise.” He graciously ignored the condescension.

“A tort—oh.  _Oh_.”

“Yeah.”

“Tortoises live on land, don’t they?”

“Yeah,” he confirmed.

“Whoops. Guess we should take him back to where he was, then. I thought maybe the flooding displaced him but nope, he was just doing his little tortoise thing in the woods until we came along and kidnapped him. We were trying to help, though.” As he spoke, he reached out and picked up the tortoise, stood and started walking away.

“Coming?” he asked again.

James stood slowly. “If you’d give me a ride back to my car, I’d appreciate it.”

“Sure, yeah, but I gotta do a few things in the boathouse first to get ready for the next shift coming in after me.” He deposited the tortoise back in the truck. “Be right back, little guy.” And then, to James, “C’mon, big man.”

He sighed and considered just walking back to his car, but he knew his joints wouldn’t be able to handle the trek. So he followed Hamilton into the boathouse, where he immediately started whatever prep he needed to do with no explanation as to what exactly what that was. James took the opportunity to sit down again. He could see Hamilton through the entrance to the work room, where he flipped some switches that produced a loud humming noise. Batteries charging, if he had to guess based on the row of electric batteries hooked up to wires on the shelf along the back wall.

Then Hamilton started hauling electric boat motors from out of sight and onto the workbench. One by one he took off the small propeller on each motor, using an oddly-shaped metal tool to remove the nut, and examined the inside. Usually he nodded to himself and reattached the propeller, but sometimes he took out a screwdriver and dug out dried mud and tangled fishing wire from the inside mechanism.

Which was fine, and somewhat interesting to watch, but after fifteen minutes James was starting to get impatient. He cleared his throat pointedly. Hamilton jumped.

“...Did you forget I was here?” he asked incredulously.

Hamilton seemed mortified. “Oh my God, I’m sorry, I just, I get caught up in what I’m doing, and I forget—”

“The tortoise is still in the back of the truck.”

“ _Oh my God_.” This seemed to alarm him much more than forgetting about James.

“Can you maybe take me back to my car and _then_ do this prep work?”

Hamilton winced at the obvious exasperation in his tone.

“Sorry,” he said again, hustling them out the door and back to the truck. “I always, I keep _thinking_ , and I mean I’m usually multi-thinking but sometimes there’s so much at the same time and I drop certain threads, certain lines—”

“It’s fine,” James interrupted. “I know you do. Not a big deal.” It wasn’t, really, but he was still annoyed about it.

Hamilton actually stopped in his tracks. “You don’t _know_. We haven’t seen each other in like five years.”

Really? This was what he wanted to argue about?

“You did the same thing in high school, though,” he reminded him. “Losing trains of thought in favor of something else.”

“Not like now,” Hamilton insisted. “I wasn’t, back then, so—” He made an aborted gesture involving lots of wiggling fingers, but didn’t elaborate; either he didn’t have the words or he wasn’t willing to say them out loud, both uncommon for Hamilton.

“Okay,” James agreed slowly. “I don’t _know_. I am slightly familiar, in passing, with some similar habits you had in high school, is what I meant. Does that suffice?”

Hamilton huffed. “Well you should say what you mean the first time, then.”

Honestly, did this man have no concept of social niceties at all? ‘In that case, what I meant was it is _not_ fine, and I want you to take me back to my car _now_ ,’ is what he wanted to say. But he was too polite—well-trained—to do so. Instead he said, “No wonder you clash with Burr so much.”

Hamilton brightened at the mention of his college roommate. “You know Aaron?”

“Yes.”

They finally made it back to the truck. James checked on the tortoise before climbing in.

“He’s great,” Hamilton continued once they were settled and finally driving. “He’s a total dick.” It seemed like he was completely sincere about both statements. James wasn’t quite sure how to respond, so he reached over and flipped on the radio, went right to NPR, because calm and organized what exactly what he needed right now. Hamilton, thank God, allowed the distraction without comment. It was actually, kind of odd that he wasn’t at least muttering to himself again, but hey, what did James know?

Hamilton parked next to his car and retrieved the tortoise again while James slowly descended and shut the door. He set the tortoise down closer to the woods and further from the road than it had been when they “rescued” it. This time it took off towards shelter immediately. Hamilton whirled on him. “Tortoise, back. You, driven to car. Boat motors—” he jabbed his finger at him, ‘incomplete’ going unsaid, fittingly enough.

In another whirl of motion, he was gone. James, left blinking in his wake, shook his head.

When he made it back to his apartment, Thomas had already gone to work, but he had left some sausages in the fridge. James taped up his knees and elbows preemptively with his mint green KT tape, microwaved the sausages, and opened up his laptop to get to work.

It was too quiet, though.

Which was...new.

 _Since when have I needed background noise_? he wondered, but went ahead and flipped on Thomas’s old kitchen radio.

_Tuesday afternoon, I’m just beginning to see, now I’m on my way...it doesn’t matter to me, chasing the clouds away…_

But it wasn’t afternoon yet. He switched the radio back off.

Time to work, then.          

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> seriously if you have an idea about where this could possibly be going...lmk @aozoranoshita on tumblr  
> also check out [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1vwVIu_xifo) video of an inept park attendant disassembling a motor and dropping things like Ham is doing in this chapter  
> and yes, the thing with the turtle/tortoise is a thing I have actually done, WHOOPS


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's been over a year  
> if you're reading this  
> I don't even know what to say  
> half of this was written a year ago, and I have done zero editing, hopefully it's coherent  
> shout out to boftestboy, who said nice things about this fic and is the sole reason it never got deleted  
> I have plans to finish this in one more chapter, we'll see how long that takes me

**Month: June, day: Sunday, time: morning, weather: partly cloudy, high of 80**

 

The third time he ended up in the park truck, he didn’t really have an explanation for it—it just happened. Hamilton kept shooting him looks like he couldn’t figure it out either. James wanted to shrug at  him, but Madisons didn’t shrug, much less admit to not knowing what they were doing.

Let’s see, he’d been down at the lakeside —

He was watching an egret make its meandering way down the shoreline in search of fish in the shallows. He heard that telltale muttering behind him and almost ignored it, but ended up turning around when Hamilton cursed loudly only the repress a curse of his own—the slight motion set off his left leg, right at the knee. At least it was the knee and not the hip, though.

“Have you considered yoga, dude? Seriously, you creak like an old man,” Hamilton commented as James stood, using his weight and the impetus of the movement to force the ball of his knee back into the socket.

And yeah, it sounded like Hamilton was mostly kidding, but still. “Never gotten that suggestion before. Wow. Yoga. I’ll let my hypermobile joints know, we’re doing yoga now. Maybe at dawn, with Enya playing in the background.” He stopped and bit his lip, because Madisons didn’t snap at people, even when they were in mild to moderate pain.

“Was just an idea, no need to get all huffy about it.”

When he finally managed to turn completely, Hamilton was standing there with a bucket and and long tool with a pair of pincers at the end, scowling. Apparently he was picking up litter from the beach area, if the debris in the bucket was any indication. James was vindictively glad for a moment that Hamilton had to pick up trash. He hoped it was gross and smelly.

(Except, not really, because James really liked this park and he’d hate it if there was trash everywhere.)

Hamilton stalked off, at least for the moment, and James decided to try and find somewhere a bit quieter, so he started to head back up the path towards the parking lot. It was slow going. Before he could make is back to his car, Hamilton reappeared.

“I googled hypermobility or whatever.”

He seemed to expect a response to this, so James drawled out an, “Okaaaaay?”

Hamilton huffed. “ _S_ _orry_.” And thrust a package of Icy-Hot at him. “You need a ride?”

James took the patches. He didn’t _need_ a ride, per se, but his car was on the other side of the fairly large parking lot—maybe one day should actually use his handicap pass—and the park truck was _right there_ and he was suddenly bone tired. He didn’t say anything, but Hamilton took the initiative and began herding him the few steps towards the side of the truck. He even opened the door for him.

James had climbed in slowly and melted into the seat with a relieved sigh. Which explained how he’d gotten _into_ the truck, but not why he’d neglected to tell Hamilton just to drive him to his own car and instead just stayed, sitting, while Hamilton drove him around the entire park. James was essentially accompanying him on his rounds, he realized. They’d stop and Hamilton would get out, pick up debris or empty trash cans, sling the bags into the back, and climb back in and drive them to another stop. He went through a good amount of hand sanitizer between stops; the sharp alcohol smell was familiar and verging on unpleasant.

The radio was on, yet again, and the station seemed to be having some kind of Beatles marathon. Hamilton was into it; he’d been singing under his breath non-stop instead of the usual muttering narration. Halfway through “A Hard Day’s Night” his volume graduated up to, not quite belting, but the “ _f_ _eeling you holding me tiiiiiiiight, tight, yeah, it’s been a hard day’s night_!” had been earnest enough to make James laugh a little bit, amused at the exuberance. The singing cut off abruptly as Hamilton seemed to remember he was there, surprised expression on his face. He blinked owlishly for a moment and then asked, apropos of nothing, “Do you think Jefferson has ever used a broom?”

What?

“What?” Seriously, _what_?

“Like if you handed him a broom, would he know how to use it?”

“It’s not that hard to use a broom?” James asked, not quite sure what he was asking but also not quite sure what he was being asked.

“Yeah, but has he actually done it? _Swept_?” He took one hand off the steering wheel and gestured expansively, presumably to represent sweeping.

“I’m sure at one point in his life —”

“ _Are_ you, though? Have you ever seen him use a broom?”

“No,” James said immediately, then actually stopped to think about it, then realized the answer was still no.

“Can you picture him using one?”

James bit his lip, because he couldn’t, really, but this felt like a trap and he wasn’t about to walk into it. “Why are you asking about Thomas’s sweeping habits?” he tried instead.

“It’s a theory I have,” Hamilton explained. “If you’ve never seen someone use a broom, and you can’t picture them using one, they’re an asshole.”

James opened his mouth to protest but Hamilton cut him off again with a vehement, “ _Confirmed!_ ”

“Confirmed, nothing,” he retorted. “What kind of theory is that?”

“A good one.”

“Can you picture _me_ using a broom?”

Hamilton gave him an appraising look. “I bet your mom made you sweep the kitchen as like a chore or something,” he said finally. “And you probably sweep at your place, since Jefferson sure as hell isn’t doing it.”

“...Our place is carpeted, I vacuum.”

“Still counts.”

“And my mom made me sweep the front porch, not the kitchen.” He had the sudden, visceral memory of the wooden boards of the porch, the light dusting of pollen from the oak trees, and the broom handle being taller than he was.

“Aha!”

“So by your theory that makes me not-an-asshole,” James pointed out.

Hamilton hummed an agreement.

This made him falter for a moment, actually taken aback. Not quite sure what to do with what seemed like an honest yet offhand approval of his character, he deflected.

“It doesn’t work the other way, though. People who don’t know how to use brooms may always be assholes, but not every asshole has never held a broom.”

“O-ho, you mean like me?”

“That’s not what I was trying to imply —”

“Nah, it’s true though.”

“You’re not…” he trailed off a bit when Hamilton raised an eyebrow at him. “... _that much_ of an asshole,” he finished.

“You’re so sweet, Mads.”

James didn’t bother responding to that one. “Don’t you ever get tired of listening to this station?” he asked instead.

“Not really. It was my mom’s favorite music so I grew up listening to it. If that was like a thinly-veiled request to change the channel then do for it, man.”

It hadn’t been, but he reached towards the console anyway. The screen said they were currently on preset 1, so he switched to preset 2. Mozart started playing a piano sonata, and Hamilton immediately blew a raspberry.

“No way, this is evening shift’s favorite station. All the odd-numbered ones are mine.”

James rolled his eyes and switched to 3.

“ _Is it just me? Is it just me? Or is this so, so good I shouldn’t have to f— for free?_ ” Drake wanted to know.

“Anyway. You always work the morning shift?” James asked, and realized he was actually continuing a conversation with Alexander Hamilton. Seriously, how did he end up here?

“Yeah, uh, there’s the opening shift, then there’s the boathouse shift? During the day they rent boats to people down there. And then a closing evening shift that locks everything up. I’m always on opening, since, well, day shift requires customer service bullshit, and when they put me on closing I tend to lock people in.”

“ _Lock them in?_ ”

Hamilton managed to shrug defensively. “They have to drive past _two_ signs that say the gates get locked at dusk to even park down here. If they didn’t wanna be locked in they should’ve left on time. So anyway, now I only open.”

“Wow.”

“I got things to do, I can’t just wait around for all these fuckings _joggers_ and whatever to get back to their vehicles. I don’t care if they’re trying to have a romantic lake picnic or whatever. Oh shit, look.”

Hamilton slowed the truck until they were idling at a crosswalk. Something moved in the woods near the road. James couldn’t make out what they were seeing until a solitary deer poked its head cautiously out of the bushes and started picking its way across the street towards the woods on the other side. It stopped in the middle of the road, gave the truck a brief, considering look, and then flicked its tail.

As if that had been some kind of silent signal, a line of more deer — another three of them — also emerged. They all slowly crossed the street, following the leader of the herd, ears and tails twitching. They all seemed rather small, but some had the beginnings of antlers growing in.

“ _Girl you throw it back like one love_ ,” went the radio.

The herd had gotten almost all the way across when suddenly, maybe hearing something they couldn’t make out in the truck, or maybe just skittish, they all bolted and darted back into the woods.

Hamilton was silent for a few more second, then he said simply, “Well that was super surreal,” and started driving again. “Anyway, I’m pretty sure deer can teleport — ”

 

By the time Hamilton dropped him back off next to his car, James had realized he’d fallen into a trap. He’d _engaged_ , and after that broom conversation, Hamilton had suddenly shifted from a self-directed running commentary to a James-directed running commentary. He wasn’t sure how he felt about it, somewhere between horrified and gratified that Hamilton had finally noticed him sitting there.

God, he couldn’t even remember half of what they’d talked about. But it had been easy, and fun, and maybe it was the lingering feeling of contentment muddling his self-awareness, but when he got home and was violently ill in the bathroom, it took him completely by surprise.

“Fuck,” he said to the toilet he was currently slumped next to. The toilet did not reply.

That was how Thomas found him a few hours later, and because he was a good friend, ended up hauling James to bed and making a run to the corner store for crackers and meds.

And because he was a great friend, he also took off work the next day to stay in with James, knowing that he hated being sick (but unfortunately, it happened a lot — goddamned immune system).

The day after James felt a bit better, enough to send Thomas off to work for the day, and was surprised when his roommate came back with a plastic container of food in a crumpled grocery bag. He was holding it kind at arm’s length, disdainful look on his face.

“Apparently when I called in yesterday, someone told Hamilton it was because you were sick. He insisted I bring this to you.” He presented the food for inspection.

It looked like chicken and rice, in some kind of sticky sauce. It did not look super appetizing.

James shrugged, except wait, no, Madisons didn’t shrug. Thomas gracefully ignored the gesture.

“Might as well try solid food,” Thomas grumbled. “Although who knows if he’s poisoned it.”

Reheated, the food actually smelled amazing, and James dug in to discover that the sauce was honey and lemon. He ate all of it.

Thomas was giving him a look when he looked up from eating the last of the rice.

“Hamilton called you Mads, when he accosted me and demanded I bring this to you.”

“It was his nickname for me, back in high school,” he explained.

Thomas raised an eyebrow. “I’m surprised you let him get away with that. And what did you call him?”

“I called him Alex.”

“...Huh. Well, anyway. Give me those dishes and I’ll clean up a bit around here. Also, I was thinking, how would you feel about getting a Roomba for the apartment?”

James stifled a laugh into his elbow, disguising it as a cough.

 

Later, he had the radio playing softly while he laid on the couch with an arm over his head.

He owed Hamilton again, he realized, for the food. It would require another trip to the park to make them even.

The radio was playing a Beatles song again. He wondered if this was the same station Hamilton always listened to.

He fell asleep.

“ _Nowhere man, please listen, you don’t know what you’re missing…_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> listening to drake and watching a bunch of deer come out of the woods is a real thing that happened to me while driving the park truck, some crappy phone camera footage [here](https://drive.google.com/file/d/0B8IjBd8tg8IUbGlQVWtDWUZOWmc/view?usp=sharing)

**Author's Note:**

> title from "hey bulldog" and I literally only picked it because of the lyric "big man (YEP) walking in the park"  
> come talk to me about what the heck this fic is even about over on tumblr @aozoranoshita


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